


My Hero

by Microdigitalwaker



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Fix-It, Gift Giving, M/M, Married Life, Post-Finale, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-07-10 04:37:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19899958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Microdigitalwaker/pseuds/Microdigitalwaker
Summary: Lionel doesn't know what to give a man who has everything.





	1. Chapter 1

What do you give a guy who has everything? Fusco ponders this, trying to keep his mind off of the mild but insistent pain in this calves and thighs. He adjusts the foam noodle he's using to stay afloat; since the Incident and the incumbent damage, he's lost a lot of the fat that made bobbing above water a breeze. Facing him a companiable measure away is Reese, whose thin legs, distorted by the pool's warm water, strongly resemble candy canes. A damned sight better, though, than when they were both encircled by steel cages, held in place by long screws and cruel wires.

This was their weekday routine: meet up after breakfast for an hour together with a pair of skilled physical therapists (drill sergeants more like it, Fusco likes to gripe, making Reese laugh). A shared smoothie followed by more therapy, aquatic this time - mostly gentle stretching capped by some aerobic paddling around like a pair of toddlers, foam noodles instead of water wings. 

Tuesdays and Thursdays, they get massages, couples massages, which makes Fusco laugh; they are a couple only not that way, what with Fusco bring married and all. He doesn't know what the masseuses think, twice a week with the fresh red roses, blood red, the soft music and candles, the way they place the tables head to head so that they can grasp each other's hands when the kneading of their poor, ruined bodies becomes painful. Reese never makes a sound but his grip can go from gentle to steel as they work on his legs and hips. Fusco, never accused of quiet, yowls for the both of them, cursing like his Italian grandfather, a sailor. 

Afterward, they walk home, opposite directions, Fusco to Finch and Reese to the loft he now shares with Shaw. Share his bed with her, too, and whodda thunk that would work out but it has. 

"What you get Firecracker for Valentine's day," which is today and Fusco still doesn't have a fucking clue about a present for his man, who can buy and sell the world if he wanted.


	2. Chapter 2

Reese bats his sweeping lashes, made more incredible by the magnification of his custom prescription swim goggles.

"I got her imported peperoncino, a jar the size of her head," Reese answers, watching with Fusco as a flock of elderly ladies enter the pool for their aerobics class. "Sameen does this fantastic thing where she takes a pepper and sticks it in her...."

Fusco lets go of the noodle, allowing his dense body to float downward into the cool depths, his ears burning. It isn't Reese's fault that his filters a bit wonky and he occasionally has problems managing his volume. After a freaking coma, let's see anyone else come out unscathed.

It's so peaceful, Fusco wants to stay but his lungs are traitors. 

Reese looks mildly hurt. "I wasn't being crude, Lionel, just saying that she'll dice a pepper and add it to tuna salad for an extra kick."

Fusco apologizes. Scowling back at the old dames (they must have heard), he limps to the men's locker room. Reese follows.

*

It's a Wednesday, so no massage; Fusco, still wearing just a towel, grabs a bottle of fancy Swiss moisturizer from his locker and waits for Reese to finish showering.   
  
Almost everything Reese does is a little slower but on the rare occasions that they've discussed it they've come to the conclusion that slow is better than dead. It's a sentiment Fusco takes to heart, given his own wonky body plus it isn't as though Reese has lost any brain speed; he's just more deliberate than before, like he's got all the time in the world since the skyscraper failed to kill him.

Fusco, who inhaled a shit ton of dust when the building collapsed, not to mention the nerve damage that necessitates botox injections, physical therapy and braces to keep his arms frozen in a boxer's pose. He and Reese have this unspoken thing - him lingering in the shower so that Fusco can get dressed alone, at least as much as his boxers, undershirt and socks without intervention, as kindly and well meaning as it is intended. Most days now, he's fine; even if he can't manage a pencil or pen he can even twist the moisturizer's cap. 

It's damned expensive, the stuff that Reese needs because the pool water does a number on the scar tissue that dots his body. Costs a fricking mint but Harold isn't phased when the jars slip from his grip. "It's not as if we can't afford it, my dear."

"C'mon." 

Reese, whose towel is precariously clinging to his hips, sits down on a bench. Silent for now, Fusco gets to work,


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long! shameless fluff ahead.

A pair of men, strangers, enter the locker room, take a gander at him and Reese and snicker, one mouthing 'fags' to the other.

"You wanna piece of me?" Fusco growls, standing, the jar of lotion slipping from his hand; good thing, he might have pitched it at their sorry asses. They scurry away and Fusco sees it's actually Reese that's intimidated them, Reese with his icy, death's head stare, that plus his impressive, Frankenstein-like body.

"Hey, hold on!" Reese grabs Fusco's elbow, preventing a fall, guiding him to the bench beside him. He points to the tiny camera mounted above the lockers, at its blinking red light. Fusco nods.

"She'll take care of them," Reese says with confidence. "Bet their cars get booted or the IRS gives them surprise audits."

"She takes after Harold," Fusco says, pointing out the obvious. "How he handles things, no guns, no bloodshed, no need to get out of his chair." 

Reese stares. "You sound bitter, Lionel. I'd have thought you were over wet work."

"It's not that. I miss..." He pauses, runs the back of his neck as he digs for words that describe what's been bothering him. "I miss saving lives. I miss helping. Risking my neck meant that I was doing my job and that made you and Harold realize I wasn't a total scumbag. Now that I can't..." He sighs. "I just don't know."

"He wouldn't have married you if he didn't think you hung the moon," Reese tells him, poking Fusco's ribs with a slippery elbow.

"I don't know."

"C'mon," Reese says, launching an all out tickle assault, which leaves Fusco wheezing.

"Uncle!"

Reese stops immediately. He pats Fusco's back as he catches his breath. "You know, Lionel, there's plenty of ways to be a hero."

*

While walking through the building's lobby, Fusco suddenly stops short. "That's it!"

Near the entrance there's a temporary kiosk, all bright, heart shaped mylar balloons and Red Cross signage:'Nothing says loving like donating blood!' and 'B(+) a Sweetheart, Donate!'.

"You sure?" asks Reese, aware of Fusco's near phobia of needles.

Fusco takes a deep breath, tucking. his chin and making determined little fists.

"If it was easy, it wouldn't mean as much."

*

Fusco always thinks the thumb prick to check for iron is more painful than the actual needle stab; as always, he realizes the error as the soft, tender skin of his inner elbow is punctured. As the nurse loosens the rubber tubing, he glances down at the tubing, now filled, dark crimson.

"Oh, no, Lionel, stay with me!" helps Reese, keeping him from crumpling.

"Shaddup, you..." Fusco's trailing off, black spots crowing his vision.

"Guess we're going to have to do things the hard way," Reese says, not sounding the least bit dismayed as he pinches Fusco's ear and twists, hard.

"Owwwww! You lousy sack of shit!"

A battleship of a nurse replaces the sweet one from before. "Gentlemen."

"Sorry," they chime, meek as lambs and Fusco bites his lip to remain stoic as she carefully withdraws the needle and not so gently slaps a bandage on. A volunteer hands him a red gift bag with one of heart balloons attached.

Despite three chocolate chip cookies and two boxes of apple juice, it's twenty minutes before Fusco can vacate the chair. " Harold's gonna worry. I'm usually like clockwork getting home."

Blinking against the bright midday sun, pulling coats closer, Fusco spots the towncar pull up at the curb.

"You Fusco?" asks the driver, opening the car door.

Fusco nods, "Just a sec." He turns to Reese. "You think it was him or her that ordered it?"

Reese shrugs. "Her."

It's a good thing, turns out, because he'd never have made even the short distance home without the help and as he gets out, he spies a nearby camera and mouths, "Thank you." He releases the heart shaped balloon into air. "Happy Valentine's Day."

*

"Darling! What happened?" squeaks Finch from the living room sofa, carelessly pushing his laptop aside to meet Fusco at the door. Boneless and sweaty, he allows Harold to peel off his coat, taking the small red paper bag from Fusco's hand to pull off the sleeve. Harold guides him to the sofa, all of this with the air of a zealous Border Collie, not letting Fusco speak until he's drained a full mug of hot tea.

Finch frowns at the sight of Fusco's bandage and pokes the bag with his index finger. "What's this?"

"For you. Happy Valentine's Day."

He lifts out the shirt he got for his donation, draping it on Finch. It'll fit like a potato sack, what was I thinking?

Turning the shirt, Finch blinks as he aloud reads the text that surrounded by tiny pink and red hearts. "I Saved a Life Today."

"I'm sorry. I know it's not much."

"This is for me?" Fusco nods, watching as Finch pulls the 4X shirt on over his bespoke button up. When his head emerges, Finch has fat tears rolling down his cheeks and he clasps Fusco's shoulders, laying on the deepest kiss.

"You gave blood. Needles terrify you and you gave blood."

"I know, I was dumb, I..."

Finch kisses him again, slowly, thoroughly, leaving no room for negative interpretations. 

"It's a little big" Fusco says shyly, tugging on the shirt's hem.

"It's perfect, you're perfect. Oh, Lionel, my hero!"


End file.
